Owing to a breakdown10 on the line between Spezia and Pisa, it was close upon midnight before I reached my destination, and almost one o’clock before I had transported my luggage from the railway station to my hotel. By this time, as will be readily understood by all those who have made the overland journey, I was in a condition bordering upon madness. Ever since I had called upon Sir George Legrath, and had obtained from him the address of the man from whom I hoped to learn the whereabouts of Pharos, I had been living in a kind of stupor11. It took the form of a drowsiness12 that nothing would shake off, and yet, do what I would, I could not sleep. Times out of number during that long journey I had laid myself back in the railway carriage and closed my eyes in the hope of obtaining some rest; but it was in vain. However artfully I might woo the drowsy13 god, sleep would not visit my eyelids14. The mocking face of the man I had come to consider my evil angel was always before me, and in the darkness of the night, when the train was rolling southward, I could hear his voice in my ears telling me that this hastily-conceived journey on my part had been all carefully thought out and arranged by him beforehand, and that in seeking him in Naples I was only advancing another step toward the fulfilment of my destiny.
On reaching my hotel I went straight to bed. Every bone in my body ached with fatigue15. Indeed, so weary was I that I could eat nothing and could scarcely think coherently. The proprietor16 of the hotel was an old friend, and for the reason that whenever I visited Naples I made it a rule to insist upon occupying the same room, I did not experience the same feeling of loneliness which usually assails17 one on retiring to rest in a strange place. In my own mind I was convinced that as soon as my head touched the pillow I should be asleep. But a bitter disappointment was in store for me. I laid myself down with a sigh of satisfaction and closed my eyes; but whether I missed the rocking of the train, or was overtired, I can not say — at any rate, I was soon convinced of one thing, and that was that the longer I lay there the more wakeful I became. I tried another position, but with the same result. I turned my pillow, only to make it the more uncomfortable. Every trick for the production of sleep that I had ever heard of I put into execution, but always with entire absence of success. At last, thoroughly18 awake and still more thoroughly exasperated19, I rose from my couch, and dressing20 myself, opened the window of my room and stepped out on to the balcony. It was a glorious night, such a one as is seldom, if ever, seen in England. Overhead the moon sailed in a cloudless sky, revealing with her exquisite21 light the city stretching away to right and left and the expanse of harbour lying directly before me; Vesuvius standing22 out black and awesome23, and the dim outline of the hills toward Castellamare and Sorrento beyond. For some reason my thoughts no longer centred themselves on Pharos. I found the lovely face of his companion continually rising before my eyes. There was the same expression of hopelessness upon it that I remembered on the first occasion upon which I had seen her; but there was this difference, that in some vague, uncertain way she seemed now to be appealing to me to help her, to rescue her from the life she was leading and from the man who had got her, as he had done myself, so completely in his power. Her beauty affected24 me as no other had ever done. I could still hear the soft accents of her voice, and the echo of her wild, weird25 music, as plainly as if I were still sitting listening to her in Lady Medenham’s drawing-room; and, strange to relate, it soothed26 me to think that it was even possible we might be in the same town together.
For upward of an hour I remained in the balcony looking down at the moonlit city and thinking of the change the last few days had brought about in my life. When I once more sought my couch, scarcely five minutes elapsed before I was wrapped in a heavy, dreamless sleep from which I did not wake until well nigh nine o’clock. Much refreshed, I dressed myself, and having swallowed a hasty breakfast, to which I brought a better appetite than I had known for some days past, donned my hat and left the hotel in search of Signor Angelotti, who, as the card informed me, carried on his profession of a public letter-writer under the arches of the San Carlo Theatre.
In all the years which have elapsed since Don Pedro de Toledo laid the foundation of the magnificent thoroughfare which to-day bears his name, I very much doubt if a man has made his way along it on a more curious errand than I did that day. To begin with, I had yet to discover what connection Angelotti could have with Monsieur Pharos, and then to find out how far it was in his power to help me. Would he forsake27 his business and lead me direct to the Egyptian’s abode28, or would he deny any knowledge of the person in question and send me unsatisfied away? Upon these points I resolved to satisfy myself without delay.
Of all the characteristic spots of Naples surely the point at which the Via Roma joins the Piazza29 San Ferdinando, in which is situated30 the theatre for which I was making, is the most remarkable31. Here one is permitted an opportunity of studying the life of the city under the most favourable32 auspices33. My mind, however, on this occasion was too much occupied wondering what the upshot of my errand would be to have any time to spare for the busy scene around me. Reaching the theatre I took the card from my pocket and once more examined it. It was plain and straightforward34, like Sir George Legrath’s own life, and, as I have already said, warned me that I must look for this mysterious Angelotti, who carried on the trade of a public letter-writer under the arches of the famous theatre. As I glanced at the words “Public Letter-writer” another scene rose before my mind’s eye.
Several years before I had visited Naples with a number of friends, among whom was a young American lady whose vivacity35 and capacity for fun made her the life and soul of the party. On one occasion nothing would please her but to stop in the street and engage one of these public scribes to indite36 a letter for her to an acquaintance in New York. I can see the old man’s amusement now, and the pretty, bright face of the girl as she endeavoured to make him understand, in broken Italian, what she desired him to say. That afternoon, I remember, we went to Capri and were late in reaching home, for which we should in all probability have received a wigging38 from the elder members of the party, who had remained behind, but for the fact that two important engagements, long hoped for, were announced as resulting from the excursion. I could not help contrasting the enjoyment39 with which I had made a bet of gloves with the young American, that she would not employ the letter-writer as narrated40 above, with my feelings as I searched for Angelotti now. Approaching the first table I inquired of the man behind it whether he could inform me where I should be most likely to find the individual I wanted.
“Angelotti, did you say, signore?” the fellow replied, shaking his head “I know no one of that name among the writers here.” Then, turning to a man seated a little distance from him, he questioned him, with the same result.
It began to look as if Legrath must have made some mistake, and that the individual in whose custody41 reposed42 the secret of Pharos’s address was as difficult to find as his master himself. But, unsuccessful as my first inquiry43 had been, I was not destined44 to be disappointed in the end. A tall, swarthy youth, of the true Neapolitan loafer type, who had been leaning against a wall close by smoking a cigarette and taking a mild interest in our conversation, now removed his back from its resting-place and approached us.
“Ten thousand pardons, Excellenza,” he said, “but you mentioned the name of one Angelotti, a public letter-writer. I am acquainted with him, and with the signore’s permission will conduct him to that person.”
“You are sure you know him?” I replied, turning upon him sharply, for I had had dealings with Neapolitan loafers before, and I did not altogether like the look of this fellow.
“Since he is my uncle, Excellenza, it may be supposed that I do,” he answered.
Having said this he inhaled46 a considerable quantity of smoke and blew it slowly out again, watching me all the time. I do not know any being in the world who can be so servile, and at the same time so insolent47 at a moment’s notice, as a youth of the Neapolitan lower classes. This fellow was an excellent specimen48 of his tribe.
“Since you know Angelotti, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me his address?” I said at last. “I have no doubt I shall then be able to find him for myself.”
Seeing the advantage he held, and scenting49 employment of not too severe a kind, the young man made a gesture with his hands as if to signify that while he was perfectly50 willing to oblige me in so small a matter, business was business, and he must profit by his opportunity. He would be perfectly willing, he said, to act as my guide; but it must be remembered that it would occupy some considerable portion of his valuable time, and this would have to be paid for at a corresponding rate.
When I had agreed to his terms he bade me follow him, and leaving the precincts of the theatre struck out in the direction of the Strada di Chiaia. Whatever his other deficiencies may have been, he was certainly a good walker, and I very soon found that it took me all my time to keep up with him. Reaching the end of the street he turned sharply to the right, crossed the road, and a few seconds later dived into an alley51. Of all the filthy52 places of Naples, that in which I now found myself was undoubtedly53 the dirtiest. As usual, the houses were many stories high; but the road was so narrow, and the balconies projected so far from the windows that an active man might have leaped from side to side with perfect safety. For the most part the houses consisted of small shops, though here and there the heavily-barred lower windows and carved doorways54 proclaimed them private residences. Halfway55 down this objectionable thoroughfare a still smaller and dirtier one led off to the right, and into this my guide turned, bidding me follow him. Just as I was beginning to wonder whether I should ever find my way out alive, the youth came to a standstill before a small shop, in which a number of second-hand56 musical instruments were displayed for sale.
“This, Excellenza, is the residence of the most illustrious Angelotti,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the shop in question.
“But I understand that he was a letter-writer,” I answered, believing for the moment that the youth had tricked me.
“And it was quite true,” he replied. “Until a month ago the Signor Angelotti had his table at the theatre; but his cousin is dead, and now he sells the most beautiful violins in all Italy.”
As he said this the young man lifted his hand and gently waved it in the air, as if it were impossible for him to find words sufficiently57 expressive58 to describe the excellence59 of the wares60 I should find within. It is probable he considered me an intending purchaser, and I do not doubt he had made up his mind, in the event of business ensuing, to return a little later in order to demand from his avuncular61 relative a commission upon the transaction. Rewarding him for the trouble he had taken, I bade him be off about his business and entered the shop. It was a dismal62 little place and filthy to an indescribable degree. The walls were hung with musical instruments, the ceiling with rows of dried herbs, and in a corner, seated at a table busily engaged upon some literary composition, a little old man, with sharp, twinkling eyes and snow-white hair. On seeing me he rose from his chair and came forward to greet me, pen in hand.
“I am looking for the Signor Angelotti,” I said, by way of introducing myself, “whom I was told I should find among the public letter-writers at the Theatre San Carlo.”
“Angelotti is my name,” he answered, “and for many years I received my clients at the place you mention; but my cousin died, and though I would willingly have gone on writing my little letters — for I may tell you, Excellenza, that writing letters for other people is a pleasurable employment — business is business, however, and here was this shop to be attended to. So away went letter-writing, and now, as you see, I sell violins and mandolins, of which I can show you the very best assortment63 in all Naples.”
As he said this he put his little sparrow-like head on one side and looked at me in such a comical fashion that I could scarcely refrain from laughing. I had no desire, however, to offend the little man, for I did not know how useful he might prove himself to me.
“Doubtless you miss your old employment,” I said, “particularly as it seems to have afforded you so much interest. It was not in connection with your talents in that direction, however, that I have called upon you. I have come all the way from England to ask you a question.”
On hearing this he nodded his head more vigorously than before.
“A great country,” he answered with enthusiasm. “I have written many letters for my clients to relatives there. There is a place called Saffron Hill. Oh, Excellenza, you would scarcely believe what stories I could tell you about the letters I have written to people there. But I am interrupting you. I am an old man, and I have seen very many things, so it is only natural I should like to talk about them.”
“Very natural, indeed,” I answered; “but in this instance all I have come to ask of you is an address. I want you to find a person for me who left England a few days since.”
“And came to Naples? A countryman, perhaps?”
“No, he is no countryman of mine, nor do I even know that he came to Naples; but I was told by some one in England, from whom I made inquiries64, that if I came here and asked for one Angelotti, a public letter-writer, I should, in all probability, be able to learn his whereabouts.”
As if convinced of the importance of the part he was to play in the affair, the old man laid his pen carefully down upon the table, and then stood before me with his hands placed together, finger-tip to finger-tip.
“If your Excellency would condescend65 to mention the individual’s name,” he said softly, “it is just possible I might be able to give him the information he seeks.”
“The name of the person I want to find is Pharos,” I replied. “He is sometimes called Pharos the Egyptian.”
Had I stated that I was in search of the Author of all Evil, the placid66 Angelotti could scarcely have betrayed more surprise. He took a step from me and for a moment gazed at me in amazement67. Then the expression gradually faded from his face, leaving it as devoid68 of emotion as before.
“Pharos?” he repeated. “For the moment it does not strike me that I know the individual.”
I should have believed that he really had not the power to help me had I not noticed the look which had come into his face when I mentioned that fatal name.
“You do not know him?” I said. “Surely you must be making some mistake. Think again, Signor Angelotti. See, here is the card I spoke69 of. It has your name and address upon it, and it was given me by Sir George Legrath, the head of the Egyptian Museum in London, of whom I think you must at least have heard.”
He shook his head after he had examined the card.
“It is my name, sure enough,” he said, handing it back to me, “but I can not understand why you should have supposed that I know anything of the person you are seeking. However, if you will write your name and address upon the card, and will leave it with me, I will make inquiries, and, should I discover anything, will at once communicate with your Excellency. I can do no more.”
I saw then that my suppositions were correct, and that the old fellow was not as ignorant as he desired me to believe. I accordingly wrote my name, with that of the hotel at which I was staying, at the top of the card, and handed it to him, and then, seeing that there was nothing further to be done, bade him good-morning, and left the shop. Fortunately, the road home was easier to find than I had expected it would be, and it was not very long before I was once more in the Piazza S. Ferdinando.
I was still thinking of the curious interview through which I had just passed when, as I crossed the road, I was suddenly recalled to the reality of the moment by a loud voice adjuring70 me, in scarcely complimentary71 terms, to get out of the way, unless I desired to be run over. I turned my head in time to see a handsome carriage, drawn72 by a pair of horses, coming swiftly toward me. With a spring I gained the pavement, and then turned to take stock of it. It was not, however, at the carriage I gazed, but at its occupant. For, lying back upon her cushions, and looking even more beautiful than when I had seen her last, was Pharos’s companion, the Fr?ulein Valerie de Vocsqal. That she saw and recognised me was shown by the expression on her face and the way in which she threw up her right hand. I almost fancied I could hear the cry of amazement that escaped her lips. Then the carriage disappeared in the crowd of traffic and she was gone again. For some moments I stood on the pavement looking after her as if rooted to the spot. It was only when I had recovered myself sufficiently to resume my walk that I could put two and two together and understand what significance this meeting had for me. If she were in Naples, it was well-nigh certain that Pharos must be there too; and if he were there, then I hoped it would be in my power to find him and acquaint him with the determination I had arrived at concerning him. That he desired to avoid me I could well understand, and the very fact that his companion showed so much astonishment73 at seeing me seemed to point to the same conclusion. Poor blind worm that I was, I hugged this conceit74 to my heart, and the more I did so the more resolved I became in my own mind that, when I did meet him, I would show no mercy. Debating with myself in this fashion, I made my way along the Strada S. Carlo and so by a short cut to my hotel.
As I have already remarked, there is nothing drearier75 in the world than a foreign hotel out of the season. In this particular instance I seemed to have the entire building to myself. The long corridors were innocent of the step of a stranger foot, and when I sat down to lunch in the great dining-hall, I had not only the room, but the entire staff, or what was left of it, to wait upon me.
I had just finished my meal, and was wondering in what manner I could spend the afternoon, when a waiter approached and placed a note beside my plate. Had I never seen the writer, I should have been able to guess his profession by his penmanship. The caligraphy displayed upon the envelope was too perfect not to be professional, and, as I looked at it, it seemed to me I could see the queer, sparrow-like head of the writer bending over it and smell the odour of the dried herbs and the still drier violins hanging up in that quaint37 old shop to which I had paid a visit that morning. On the top was my name and address in my own writing, and below it the direction furnished me by Sir George Legrath. Seeing that there was nothing new on that side, I took it to the window, and, turning it over, read as follows:
“If Mr. Forrester desires to meet the person of whom he spoke this morning he should be in the Temple of Mercury at Pompeii this afternoon at four o’clock. Provided he brings no one with him, he will be permitted the interview he seeks.”
There was no signature, and nothing but the penmanship to show from whom it emanated76; that it was genuine, however, I did not for a moment doubt. I looked at my watch, and finding that as yet it was scarcely half past one, tried to make up my mind whether I should go by train or drive. The afternoon would be hot, I was very well aware, and so would a long drive in an open carriage be; but the train would be hotter still. Eventually I decided77 for the road, and immediately despatched a waiter in search of a conveyance78. Of the carriage and horses there is nothing to be said, and save the view, which is always beautiful, but little in favour of the drive. It was a quarter to four when I alighted at the entrance to the ruins, and by that time I was covered from head to foot with a coating of that indescribable dust so peculiar79 to Naples.
Informing the cabman that I should return to the city by train, I paid the admission fee and, declining the services of a guide, entered the grounds, keeping my eyes wide open, as you may suppose, for the man I had come to meet. Entering the ruins proper by the Marine80 Gate, I made my way direct to the rendezvous81 named upon the card, and, surely, never in the history of that ancient place had a man passed along its streets on a stranger mission. I need not have hurried, however, for on reaching the Forum82, whence a full view of the Temple can be obtained, I found that I had the place to myself. Having satisfied myself on this point, I sat down on a block of stone and collected my thoughts in preparation for the coming interview. Times out of number I consulted my watch; and when the hands pointed45 to four o’clock I felt as if the quarter of an hour I had spent there had in reality been an hour. It was a breathless afternoon; beyond the city the blue hills seemed to float and quiver in mid-air. A lark83 was trilling in the sky above me, and so still was it that the rumbling84 of a wagon85 on the white road half a mile or so away could be distinctly heard.
“My dear Mr. Forrester, allow me to wish you a very good afternoon; I need scarcely say how delighted I am to meet you!” said a voice behind me; and, turning, I found myself face to face with Pharos.
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1
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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wigging
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| n.责备，骂，叱责 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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avuncular
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| adj.叔伯般的，慈祥的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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adjuring
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的现在分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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83
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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